


Demons

by kitbuckle



Series: SuperWolf/Teennatural [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Winchester interrogation techniques, mention of U.S. school shootings, no mention of Cas sorry, possessed!stiles, pre-Sterek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitbuckle/pseuds/kitbuckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’d just been trying to get some intel on Crowley. Really. Well, okay, not really, but it was on their agenda. They’d seen and followed the signs of a lone demon who enjoyed possessing teenagers and using them to gun down a shitload of innocent people before killing its host. The demon had been caught and exorcised and sent back to hell before, after the high school in Ohio and then again after the university in Virginia, but he never stayed down long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demons

They’d just been trying to get some intel on Crowley. Really. Well, okay, not really, but it was on their agenda. They’d seen and followed the signs of a lone demon who enjoyed possessing teenagers and using them to gun down a shitload of innocent people before killing its host. The demon had been caught and exorcised and sent back to hell before, after the high school in Ohio and then again after the university in Virginia, but he never stayed down long. Dean and Sam were hoping to catch the sonuvabitch before it escalated to the Ohio/Virginia level—which would be soon, if the demon stuck to his pattern. And maybe they could get some intel on Crowley, if this demon was powerful enough to bounce back so quickly and often.

That was how they found themselves holed up with the latest meat suit, a wiry kid with dark hair and eyes and a pert nose, the kind of person no one would suspect until he came to school with his father’s gun and afterwards everyone would say how they weren’t surprised it was him. Sam wondered if the kid, the real kid, was as mischievous as he looked, or if that was just the demon. Anyone could look like a demon, he’d learned.

“The Winchester boys,” the demon said, and smiled. “Oh, this is gonna be good. Do you have any idea what you’ve stepped into?”

“Usually don’t,” Dean said, skimming one of Bobby’s old books for an exorcism more powerful than the ones they’d already memorized. Usually they operated on a “stab first, moralize later” policy—but so many people had already died because of this dickhead, they didn’t want to kill the kid unless they absolutely had to.

“Don’t blame you,” the demon said, conversational, like it got tied up and Devil’s-Trapped all the time. “I sure didn’t see it, not even when I hitched a ride with the kid.”

“See what?” Sam asked. He was sitting in the corner behind the demon, holding Ruby’s knife. Just in case.

“That I’m not the only monster in this town,” the demon said easily. “And the other guys have been here a lot longer than I have.” Dean looked up from the book, at Sam, and the demon chuckled at his expression. “I don’t blame you. They covered their tracks well.”

“I don’t suppose you’d tell us,” Dean said, with the pinch between his eyes that said he already knew the answer.

The demon looked genuinely confused. “Now where’s the fun in that?” And then its face slipped into a wide psychotic grin. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

That’s when Sam heard it, far-off but unmistakable, because he was close to the windows—howling. He nudged the curtain over his shoulder just enough, and saw a figure high in the trees outside by the light of the half moon: two-legged, broad, with the tightly-coiled poise of a beast on the hunt. It dropped down in a controlled leap, and Sam heard the howling again, closer. “Dean.”

“What do we got, Sammy?”

It’d been a long time, but Sam went with his instincts. “Werewolf, I think.” There was one of it and two of them, so he could cover Dean when they went for the silver bullets in the car, the demon wasn’t going anywhere and the werewolf was on the other side of—

More howling, and snarls, just outside the door. Two heavy thumps on the roof. Dean barely managed to get over to Sam, putting the demon between them and the door, and get their guns up before the door crashed off its hinges.

They didn’t shoot for two reasons: first, because the first werewolf’s eyes flashed red instead of the ice blue like Maddie’s, all those years ago, and that was a shock; second, because Red-Eyes and the two that came with him stopped short when they saw Sam’s gun pointed at the demon’s head (which only happened because the door had sent splinters flying and Sam flinched to save his eyeballs).

“About time,” the demon said, sounding for all the world like a terrified, kidnapped high-schooler. “A little help here?”

Dean kicked the demon’s chair. “Shut up, you piece of—”

“Hey!” Red-Eyes shout-growled, claws and fangs showing. The other two—Hoodie and Curly—added their own snarls, echoed from all sides by what Sam could only assume was more werewolves, on the roof and covering the windows.

That right there? Bad. Werewolves didn’t run in packs.

“Since when does Crowley have a werewolf army in his back pocket?” Dean asked, but…

“Dean,” Sam said. “I don’t think they know.” There was fierce protectiveness in Red-Eyes’s glare. Sam recognized it easily, from being on the receiving end of the same look from Dean and Bobby.

Dean hesitated just long enough for Sam to understand it as an _okay-let’s-try-your-theory_. Because they were werewolves, Sam didn’t think he needed to beat around the bush. “Your friend’s possessed by a demon.”

The demon snorted. “Yeah, sure, let’s go with that. Of course there’s a logical reason for a couple of hunters to kidnap an innocent human who _happens_ to hang out with werewolves. Couldn’t be to set a trap for the werewolves. No way.”

Red-Eyes wasn’t buying it either. “Let him go,” he growled. Hoodie outright snarled at them. There was scrabbling on the roof as the werewolves up there started tearing away shingles, trying to access the showdown from above. The Devil’s Trap painted onto the ceiling shuddered.

“Sam,” Dean said, and pointed his gun at the ceiling. Red-Eyes bellowed and took a step forward.

“You gotta tell them to stop that,” Sam said, but too late because a clawed hand busted through a section that was thankfully not painted red and Dean fired three rounds and the windows broke in and Red-Eyes crouched with murder in his eyes and Sam yelled, “ _Christo_!”

The demon screamed and writhed inside its host, black smoke dribbling out of its mouth before it got itself under control. When it straightened up and faced the now frozen, silent werewolves, its host’s eyes were all black.

The demon gave up on hiding itself and smiled at Red-Eyes. “Hello, sugar,” it said, crossing its left knee over its right. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Red-Eyes looked like he’d been hit by a bullet train, or maybe just watched a friend get hit by a bullet train. Hoodie and Curly and the two bigger werewolves halfway through the windows didn’t look much better.

“What are you?” Red-Eyes said.

“A demon,” said Dean. “And a seriously messed-up one at that.”

“He’s been hitching a ride on teenagers up and down California for weeks, using them to commit murder-suicides,” Sam added.

“You have your hobbies, I have mine,” said the demon airily.

“Where’s Stiles?” Hoodie asked. “What did you do to him?”

“Oh, he’s still in here, screaming away,” the demon said cheerfully. “Normally I have my meat suits all to myself after a day or two, but this kid’s a feisty one. I was looking forward to hearing him shriek when I performed a live dissection on his father. Shame.”

Red-Eyes swooped in, the demon’s shirt fisted in his hand, before Sam or Dean could react. “Get. Out.” He bared his teeth, showing bright white, lethal fangs.

“No thanks, I’m quite comfy here,” the demon said. “Besides, it’s these two you have to worry about. They’ve killed so many of my kind that they’ve stopped caring about what happens to the host. Gigantor over there once drained a meat suit dry while the poor girl was begging him to spare her. Stilinski can feel everything you do to me, and he’s the one that has to live in this body when I’m gone.”

Red-Eyes’s stare was like a physical weight, fixing Sam in place even though Red-Eyes was much younger than him and the rest of the wolves had to be teenagers. “Is that true?” he asked.

“We weren’t gonna hurt him,” Sam said quickly.

“Unless we had to,” said Dean. “We need info on this sonuvabitch’s boss. There’s only so many ways to get it.” He waved Ruby’s knife for emphasis, which Sam didn’t think was strictly necessary.

“And that doesn’t even _begin_ to cover the damage I can do all by my little old self,” the demon went on, smiling cruelly. “I can make it so that he’ll want to off himself the minute I’m gone. I can break his mind, his will to live. I can make him a vegetable for the rest of his life.”

Sam didn’t see the wind-up or the punch, but suddenly the demon’s head snapped to one side and Red-Eyes straightened up from the swing. As the demon moaned, his voice dove down into a lower pitch than the one he’d been using, ending in a harsh intake of breath. “Jesus mother _fucker_ , Derek!” The demon’s eyes opened, but they weren’t the demon’s, they were brown and clear and comically annoyed.

“Stiles?” Hoodie stepped forward, painfully hopeful—Red-Eyes (Derek?) gripped the kid’s shoulders.

Stiles’s back arched against the ropes holding him in the chair, his mouth falling open and his face contracted with pain. “Not for long,” he gasped. “Listen, trust these guys it’s scared of them they know what to do—they’re good werewolves I promise and we don’t try to kill anyone unless they try to kill us first—” Stiles cut off, his hands and fingers fully flexed on the armrests, his legs jerking against their ropes, “don’t listen to it seriously gag it or something just _don’t listen_ —” And then his back arched again, harder than before, and his head went back and there was an eerie rushing noise.

Stiles’s chin fell to his chest, and when it raised it had the demon’s eyes again. Derek stepped back, his expression grim. The demon grinned at him. “Kinky little bastard, your boyfriend. He likes it when you hit him, but your super-sniffer told you that months ago. Got him all hot and bothered—me, too.” The demon blew a kiss, making Derek scowl harder and Hoodie growl.

“Erica,” Derek called. “Get Lydia and Allison and get in here.” He met Sam’s eyes, then Dean’s, measuring them up. “I’m Derek Hale,” he said. “This is my pack. _Stiles_ is pack.”

“Since when do werewolves have packs?” Dean asked.

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You clearly haven’t dealt with a lot of werewolves.”

“A few,” Sam said, clearing his throat, remembering Maddie, and the runaway Kate. “But they were always on their own.”

“Omegas,” Derek said. “Loners. We’re more powerful in packs, better—more civilized.”

“You can control the shifting?” Sam asked.

“With practice,” Derek said.

“Hello?” the demon said, playing offended. “I’m starting to feel neglected. Nearly as neglected as Stiles feels. Like, all the time.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed and flashed red for a moment. “Do what you have to,” he said. “But if you hurt Stiles, you die.”

“Okay,” Dean said, in a voice that said the opposite. Three girls filed in behind Derek, Hoodie, and Curly—blonde, strawberry blonde, black-haired. Sam glanced over his shoulder and saw the two big guys had made it all the way through the windows. The black kid had his arms crossed, and the Abercrombie-model-type, his fists clenched. “Any of you read Latin?”

“Lydia,” Derek said, an answer and a command. The wolves made a path for the pretty strawberry-blonde, who daintily brushed shreds of shingles off her hands. Dean pointed at the book on the table.

“Exorcism. When I say go, don’t stop for anything.” Lydia looked at Derek, who nodded, before nodding at Dean. Dean looked over the rest of them. “If you wanna leave, leave now.” No one moved.

The demon smirked.

Dean and Sam shared a look. “Keep an eye on the Devil’s Trap, then. Make sure it doesn’t break or get smudged or anything.” He turned his attention to the demon, who met him with an expression of exaggerated polite interest. “It’s your choice how messy this gets,” Dean said. “Where’s Crowley? What’s he up to?”

“The kid’s stronger than anyone gives him credit for,” the demon said. “I didn’t know about these mutts until Jackie threw a tantrum and tried to kill Allison yesterday.” Hoodie looked from the black-haired girl to Abercrombie, who was now standing guard over Lydia.

Dean’s eyes hardened. “Sam.”

Sam started in on the normal exorcism, making the demon yelp and twist in pain.

“What is Crowley up to?” Dean asked again. “Where is he keeping the tablets?”

The demon panted, then started laughing. “He’s blocking me out so well,” it said, grinning like it was proud. “He’s trying _so hard_ to keep your secrets.”

Sam said the next line of the exorcism, and the demon screamed. “Where is Crowley?” Dean demanded.

“He’s such a good friend,” said the demon, thrashing, and Sam knew it was building up to something, a punch line, or just a punch. “He’s so busy protecting you idiots that he’s leaving himself wide open.”

Sam turned to the black kid and pointed at the gas can by the kid’s feet. “Holy water,” he said. With another nod from Derek, the big guy uncrossed his arms and thrust the can at Sam. Sam splashed the holy water in the demon’s face, and it screamed again in Stiles’s voice as steam rose from Stiles’s skin.

“What’s Crowley planning, what’s his next move?” said Dean.

“Did you know his father drinks?” the demon said, teeth gritted, eyes fastened on the pack. “Stiles has to hide the whiskey. The only person who _ever_ made him feel safe was his mom, and he’s convinced her death and his dad’s drinking is his fault. He once had four panic attacks in one day. He only spends so much time protecting you dysfunctional screw-ups because he doesn’t think his own life is worth protecting.”

Sam could feel the pack’s growls vibrating through the floorboards. “Shut up,” Abercrombie snarled. The demon laughed, then screamed when Sam added more lines of the exorcism to another bath of holy water, then laughed again, drowning out Dean’s question.

“You can say that he’s pack all you want,” the demon said to Derek. “He’ll never believe you. He’ll never think of himself as important. And one day he’ll die so one of you doesn’t have to, because he doesn’t think he’s pack or important, when he’s the _only_ thing holding you pathetic, broken, self-destructive meat suits together!”

“SHUT UP!” Abercrombie bellowed, and sprang at the chair. Derek shouted, and Hoodie and Curly intercepted Abercrombie, sending the three of them crashing through the wall and into the night. The sounds of dogs fighting—barks, whines, snarling—followed them.

“Erica,” Derek said, and the blonde behind him snapped to attention. “Make sure they don’t come back till we’re done.” She nodded and was gone.

The demon sighed. “It was worth a try.”

Dean leaned Ruby’s knife against the demon’s throat. Sam could _feel_ the pack’s attention narrow to the curved blade. “Tell us what you know,” Dean said, voice low and dangerous.

The demon laughed once, short. “Nice try, but if I tell you anything, I’m dead. And Crowley likes to take his time. Your only bargaining chip was a quick death, and you can’t do that without damaging the merchandise.” It flexed Stiles’s fingers briefly to illustrate its point. “So you might as well finish up your little exorcism, and maybe we’ll do this again in a few months.”

For a minute, Sam watched Dean’s face and knew that every instinct was demanding this demon’s death. For half that minute, Sam wanted it, too. Screw the consequences, this sociopath was one of the worst of his kind that they’d ever tracked, and the _need_ to put him down itched under Sam’s skin. Then Sam remembered Stiles, remembered that he wasn’t even eighteen. He saw how, though Derek Hale wore a human face, his claws were buried deep in the rotting table he leaned against. He heard the animal sounds from outside. All compassion aside, they were still two hunters against a werewolf pack of eight, and he wasn’t too keen on watching Dean get shredded again. So he watched Dean tremble on that knife’s edge, ready to speak.

Dean took the blade away, but he said, “I don’t think so. I think we’re gonna make it so you get buried deep, deeper than the chains and the fire, down to the blackness underneath.” He looked at Lydia, still manning the book. “Hit it.”

She started to read.

The demon screeched. Its chair jerked around within the Devil’s Trap, looking for a way out. What glass remained in the windows shattered and went flying into the room. Wind picked up out of nowhere, seeking to blow away the weakened ceiling and the Devil’s Trap with it.

“Faster,” Dean yelled, and Lydia shouted to be heard over the wind. Stiles’s head snapped back to an abnormal degree, bringing Derek and the black-haired Allison to their feet. Black smoke poured out of his mouth, fought against itself and tried to pour back in. Stiles’s mouth was opened so wide that Sam was afraid the kid’s jaw would crack off its hinges. But Lydia barked out the last syllables, and the demon-smoke was pulled down through the floorboards with a final scream that could’ve been the demon, or just the wind in their ears.

Stiles body collapsed against the ropes and the chair, making the rickety thing creak in the silence. His head bumped against his chest. Derek scrambled over to him and took Stiles’s head in big, clawed hands. Sam and Dean stepped back a few paces.

“Stiles?” Derek said. “Stiles, come on, get out here.” Stiles’s chest moved—he was breathing, at least. Derek slapped his cheek lightly. “Don’t make me hit you again.”

Stiles choked on a laugh, still breathing like he’d just been sprinting. He opened his eyes to half-mast, and it was easy to see the tired shadows underneath in the demon’s absence. “Hey, sourwolf.” Derek let out a long breath.

Lydia came over and hugged him fiercely around his neck. “You look like shit,” she said.

“ _You_ try getting possessed for a week, see what it does for your beauty sleep,” said Stiles. Allison kissed his forehead and took a knife to the ropes around his wrists. Sam corked the holy water; Dean shut Bobby’s book. They shared a look ( _what should we do/they’re freaking werewolves/they don’t kill people/that we know of/they have humans/since when can humans be trusted_ ), then saw the black kid watching them and went back to packing up.

“What happened?” Derek asked, as Stiles rubbed his wrists.

“Got body-jumped around midnight Friday morning—I mean, Friday the thirteenth. How clichéd is that.”

There was a brief pause, and Derek frowned. “That thing leave behind a filter between your brain and your mouth?” Lydia asked. Her tone tried for light-hearted, but her face was too worried to pull it off.

“No sleep or meds. Six days,” Stiles said. He was still breathing hard. He frowned in concentration and his half-closed eyes focused on Derek. “Why don’t you smile more? You’re _gorgeous_ when you smile.” Sam tried not to laugh at the face Dean made.

“Someone’s off his Adderall,” Hoodie said, trotting back into the shed with worry lines between his eyes. Abercrombie, Curly, and Erica followed him. Curly shoved his way forward, tucked his nose behind Stiles’s ear, and inhaled deeply. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

Stiles petted Curly’s hair absently, his eyes still on Derek. “Isaac, have you ever seen Derek shirtless? He’s a freaking Greek god, it’s completely unfair.” His words carried all the petulance of a tired child.

Derek frowned at him (again). “You need rest,” he said.

“Hold on there,” Dean said, making something click threateningly on his gun. He had his War Face on. “A whole pack of werewolves isn’t something we can ignore.”

The black kid was suddenly between Dean and the rest, his eyes flashing yellow. “We’re not asking you to ignore it,” he said. “But it’s better if you leave.”

“Boyd,” Derek said. Boyd didn’t move, but his eyes stopped glowing.

Sam was on edge, but he knew what his next move should be. “You said you don’t kill humans.”

Derek gestured to Stiles, Lydia, and Allison. “Obviously.”

“Then what do you eat?”

Lydia raised a brow. “Food. Spinach and goat cheese salads with strawberries and lemon zest. Italian for Artemis over here, sushi for Blondie. Burgers and fries for the heathens.”

 “Black outs when you change?” Dean asked, still wary. “Like, Incredible Hulk style?”

Derek glanced around at the other wolves— _his_ wolves, Sam realized. _A pure-blood_. They all shook their heads. “It’s fuzzy, at the beginning, but never all the way black,” Derek said.

“What kinds of werewolves have you been hunting?” Allison asked, half-fascinated, half-scornful.

Sam and Dean shared another look ( _well-might-as-well_ ) before Sam spoke. “The last one we met was a professor at a university—clawed out a kid’s heart and turned two kids to place the blame on,” he said. “One kid ganked the other and bit the dead guy’s girlfriend. Girlfriend tore him to shreds and ran. The one before that was in San Francisco, five or six years ago. There were two. They clawed open seven people and ate their hearts. They blacked out when they transformed, so they had no idea what they were or what they were doing. And they didn’t work together like you all do.”

Derek’s face was grim, and got grimmer when the whole room turned to him. “That’s not an Omega,” he said, his voice rough. “It happens, sometimes. An irresponsible Alpha, or one who’s killed before he can help the ones he’s bitten. The Betas can…devolve. Slip through the cracks.” His eyes hardened as he stared down Sam and Dean. “I won’t let that happen here.”

“Not good enough for us, Cujo.”

“Dean—”

“There’s another group of hunters in town,” Allison said. “They specialize in werewolves. The werewolves don’t kill humans, and the hunters don’t kill the werewolves. That’s the agreement.” Hoodie took her hand and squeezed it. History there, Sam thought, and secrets.

Dean still wasn’t buying it. “You’re telling me that a whole group of hunters is around and didn’t notice an ass-kicker demon like the one riding around in your friend?”

“They don’t do demons,” Allison said. “Honestly, until a few hours ago, we all thought werewolves and lizard-people were about the extent of our supernatural problems.”

Dean and Sam couldn’t help it—they snorted. Loudly. Then Sam saw Allison’s worry, Derek’s resignation, the shuttered fright in Isaac’s wide eyes, the determined wariness in Boyd and Abercrombie’s shoulders. Another batch of people stripped of what blissful ignorance they still had, and this bunch just kids. He looked at Dean, and knew his brother felt it too.

Sam shrugged. “We got the demon.”

Dean tucked his gun in his waistband. “We should see these other hunters before we leave town.”

“I can take you to them,” Allison said. She raised her eyebrows at Derek, who nodded once.

“Take Scott with you,” he said. “We’ll meet you at Stiles’s.”

“What are we gonna tell the Sheriff?” Erica asked, petting Stilinski’s hair. He’d passed out, his head leaning back against her stomach.

Sam slung his bag over his shoulder and hefted the gas can of holy water. “Not enough Adderall?”

“Stomach flu,” Dean said. “You were all hanging out and he started puking his guts out, then he fell asleep.”

They all stared at him. He shrugged. “Always worked on my dad.”

“He is asleep,” Isaac said, peering down at Stiles.

Abercrombie grunted. “Explains why he finally shut up for once.”

Derek grabbed Stiles’s arms, pulled, draped the kid over his shoulder and stood. He stared at Sam and Dean again—he was good at staring—and held out his hand. “Nice meeting you. Thanks for…” He shifted Stiles on his shoulder.

Dean nodded. “No problem.” It was turning into Broody Men of the Supernatural World Bonding Time, so Sam rolled his eyes at his big bro before shaking Derek’s hand as well. “We’ll leave our contact info with your hunters, in case anything else comes up.”

They walked outside to the Impala, now accompanied by a Jeep, a Porsche, and a sleek black Camaro. Derek loaded Stiles into the Jeep and tossed his keys to Boyd. “Park a few blocks down, and meet me at the window.” Isaac sat with Stiles in the back of the Jeep—Boyd and Erica took the Camaro—and Lydia and Abercrombie slid into the Porsche. They were gone before Sam and Dean were finished packing up the Impala. Allison and Scott watched them go, pressed against each other.

“Will he be okay?” Scott asked. You couldn’t miss the desperation in his voice.

Sam remembered the things the demon had said through Stiles’s body. He remembered Meg taking his body from him, and then Lucifer after. Now the danger was over, he felt nothing but respect for the kid who not only voluntarily hung out with werewolves, but also had the strength to keep his secrets to himself when there was someone else worming around in his head. He looked across the car at Dean, and they both knew what the other was thinking: demons don’t always lie, especially when they know the truth will hurt.

They knew about single fathers, sainted mothers, about drowning in whiskey and the willingness to give your life if it saved someone else’s. They knew all the ways those things could cut deep and leave you dark inside.

Sam couldn’t say it, so Dean did.

“The demon can’t hurt him anymore.” Allison turned her face into Scott’s neck. Dean unlocked the car, they got in, and no one spoke as Queensrÿche wailed over the speakers and gravel gave way to asphalt under Baby’s tires.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the demon calls Stiles Derek's "boyfriend," but they're not there yet 'cause they're stupidheads and it'll take them forever.
> 
> I reserve the right to add more fics to this crossover universe if the fancy strikes me.
> 
> UPDATE: You can check out my other writing on my tumblr, kit-moosebuckle, by clicking the "My Writing" button on the left side of the screen. I also run a small fic rec side blog (moosebuckle-ficrecs). Come say hi! :)


End file.
